


Misguided Ghosts

by buttheyrebrothers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Halloween Costumes, Post-Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:30:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5107991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttheyrebrothers/pseuds/buttheyrebrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Halloween. <br/>Dean is a civilian now, living the apple pie life. <br/>Sam is trapped in the Cage, tortured by vicious archangels. <br/>Simple truths, like bullets aimed for the kill.</p><p>Story is set during the year Dean spent at Lisa's. It's Halloween and kids come trick and treating at their door. Everything is fine until a certain costume stirs up a long forgotten memory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misguided Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the spn_writing challenge on tumblr, prompt was Halloween costume.

> “Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.”  
>  ― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

Dean is living with Lisa and Ben for over four months. He lost Sam four months and 18 days ago.

He knows this like he knows his brother’s name. Facts with no sense behind them. Not to him. Not anymore.

Time has lost its meaning since his clock has stopped ticking.

Days merge into each other; so he invented little flags, planted to help him wade through them. Monday to Friday – bring Ben to school, go to work. Have a beer with one of the boys afterwards. Make small talk, act normal. Remember that Vampire means Christopher Reeve as Dracula and nothing more. Dinner with your new family (what’s family but another six-letter word, a space between Sammy and brother). Rinse, repeat.

Weekends are worse, his flags buried deep within a sea of aimless time. He’s never sure what he’s supposed to do, if there is a course he missed to take, thanks to his life on the road.

He barely sleeps. Keeping track of the days, and weeks and months is hard. He could have sworn it is still May (the same year or eons later is another question Dean is not able to answer most of the time).

Fall is already there. He knows that because the leaves turned red and gold and brown. They’re glowing bright on sunny days, framed by the blue tinted sky, a tirade of colors. Something coils in his gut at the sight.

Another sign are the carved pumpkins mocking him with their crippled laughter.

It’s Halloween.

Dean is a civilian now, living the apple pie life.

Sam is trapped in the Cage, tortured by vicious archangels.

Simple truths, like bullets aimed for the kill.

It’s the 31th of October and Ben is at a sleepover with some of his friends. They’re having a horror movie night. The thought makes Dean anxious, little ants crawling under his skin. Every hunter knows that Halloween is a dangerous night, maybe one of the worst besides the days of solstice. That’s why he and Sam never went out on these nights; it would have been like asking to get killed. And despite what Bobby might have said, they never actually had a death wish.

No, they rather stayed in and waited for the next day. They always cleaned up the messes afterwards, of course they did. But because it was almost impossible to prevent those messes happening in the first place, they decided that Halloween was their night off. Corporate holiday, so to speak.

Dean doesn’t say a word about his fears to Ben. Instead he orders him to _be careful. Call when we need to get you. Or when something strange is happening, no matter what. Don’t leave the house alone._

Dean hopes this will be enough. He has left this part of his life behind. If he thinks it often enough maybe he’ll believe it one day.

He and Lisa plan a relaxing evening at home, dinner and a movie. Lisa wants to watch horror movies like most normal people do on Halloween. Dean vetoes this, and when Lisa assumes it is because of the life he led and the trauma suffered from it, he doesn’t deny it. It’s not exactly wrong.

The thing is, Sam and he, they had this Halloween tradition. They would get greasy take out and watch old horror flicks the whole day, just the two of them. Sometimes they played a game of cards, too. They’d drink a couple of cold ones and talk about the most random things.

It had been one of those evenings that, for the first time since the lady in white, Sam had told Dean stories about Jess. Real stories and not those cryptic half-sentences he never finished. About the way they met. They both had laughed about the fact that she had asked out Sam and not the other way around. Dean remembers Sam’s voice breaking when he had talked about the way their first date had ended, with beer and pizza on Sam’s couch and an old movie from the 50s. He had known right then that he could love her.

Sam had talked about homemade meals, Christmas trees, lazy Sundays. The feeling of being scared out of your fucking mind because you swear you can still smell smoke, still taste ash when you close your eyes. Dean had found himself telling stories about his time alone on the road, about Cassie, about their Dad. Sometimes even their mum. Things he’d never even mention on every other day.

He still wishes he would have said more. There are so many things stuck in his throat now, it feels raw and bleeding.

Dean knows he will stay sober tonight. He tells himself it is because he wants to be sharp, alert (it’s only a lie if you don’t believe in it). Deep down, at the bottom of a sea made of regrets and alcohol, he knows that’s not true.

It’s his way of punishment. He failed, screwed up the only thing he ever truly cared about. Numbness is a privilege he doesn’t deserve. If there is nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire.

In the end, the movie they’re watching doesn’t really matter. Kids come and go, clad in all kinds of ridiculous costumes (the scariest so far had been a little girl in so much glittery pink that he had wanted to hide forever at her sight). Lisa proposes to take turns answering the door, but more often than not Dean tells her to stay put. It’s a welcome distraction from the screaming in his head.

The little monsters demand treats and threaten him with tricks, the usual shtick. Dean is tempted to refuse some, just to see what they would come up with. He thinks of Sam’s bitchface and withstands. It wouldn’t be fun without it being aimed at him anyway. Most things aren’t.

At ten most of their candy bars are gone, thanks to the many kids in the neighborhood (and Dean’s sweet tooth), when the doorbell rings again.

He gets up and wills his face to fake another smile.

“It’s okay, Lis. I got it.”

When Dean opens the door he realizes that he really doesn’t.

His grip on the door handle becomes white knuckled and there is a ringing in his ears, which only gets louder and louder. The kid in front of him looks like Sammy, and that can’t be true. His Sammy is not here, he’s gone and even if he’s not, he stopped being a snot nosed, hero worshiping little kid a long time ago. Knowing it, and making his stupidly hopeful heart believe it, are two different things.

It’s the costume, he realizes. It’s the same Sam had worn Halloween 1992, the only time they ever celebrated the holiday in the same way everybody else did. Back then, they had stayed in a small town in Connecticut that had been oddly charming and welcoming to two little boys with worn clothes and ever hungry stomachs. Until then a nine-year old Sammy had begged Dad to go trick or treating for years already, but they had always been on the road or in motels out in the middle of nowhere. Besides, knowing what they did, John liked it best to have his two boys someplace safe.

This year was different. The house they stayed in was really nice, as was the town. The job John was working was several towns over and nothing out of the ordinary was happening in Stars Hollow. So Dean had decided to give his little brother this one thing he was asking for so long (always wishing he could give more, feeling guilty whenever he thought about how he once had what Sam so desperately wanted, even if it was taken from Dean so soon and violent). Sam had been way too quiet for his age back then. Solely focused on Dean, after he had already lost too many friends to their constant moving (in those no-man’s-hours a dark voice whispers to Dean _good_ and _my Sammy, mine_ ) and was more on the shy side than Dean.

His little brother had been adorable.

Already scarily smart, a wild mop of brown hair on his little head and big, hazel eyes Sam had been quite the hit with those old ladies in town. They had adored him, convinced there was nothing cuter in this world than the way his big brother doted over the little boy. Sometimes they had annoyed Dean, with their constant cooing and petting, but when the town's theater and dance teacher had offered to supply Dean with the necessary items to make Sam a kick-ass costume, he was thankful for them.

Sam and Dean had watched _Beetlejuice_ so many times that year that even Dean had been sick of it. His little brother on the other hand had loved that movie to death. The most logical decision therefore was to dress him up as the main character. Dean had secretly worked on the costume every day for a week. It hadn’t been easy to leave Sam alone to do so, so most work had been done while Sam had slept soundly right next to him. Where he belonged.

Two days before Halloween, their father had dropped by to leave some more money he had hustled and to regroup for a night. John had been hunting something in the local woods a few towns over and by the looks of it had underestimated the thing. And because he knew as well as Dean how much Sammy had wished for a normal Halloween, John had helped Dean preparing the costume. They had set next to each other in their small, brightly lit kitchen and dyed and sewed the material Dean had gotten. Every time Dean thinks back to those evenings, his chest aches with the simple longing of a little boy, for the father he has lost too soon and the childhood that never really was but still felt safer and simpler for his father being there. John had left after two nights and let Dean promise over and over that he would be careful, that he would watch out for Sammy. John’s worry and reluctance had been obvious to the young teenager, but their father didn’t have the heart to forbid them this night. Besides, they both knew John wasn’t naive, he had known that Dean would’ve done anything to protect Sammy; he never had needed orders to remind him of it. The only time his oldest son would ever disobey a direct order would be for his little brother anyway. But with saying these words Johns could feel like he was part of Sam’s safe keeping without being physically there to do so.

Dean never forgot the look of unadulterated glee on Sammy’s face when he saw the costume on the morning of Halloween. The little boy had run up to Dean at full speed, only to stop short before him like he was frozen. His tiny hand had been reaching out, hovering over the material like he was afraid it would vanish as soon as he touched it. Like he couldn’t trust a good thing happening to them. Not after what he had learned last Christmas. The look broke Dean’s heart all over again.

“What do you say, kiddo? Wanna go trick or treating tonight with your big brother?” Dean had tried to keep his tone light and not let seep any of his thoughts into it. Sam had given him his love and trust on a silver plate, it was hanging from his neck as a constant reminder, and he sure as hell wouldn’t weigh him down with his own sadness.

Sam was looking up at him with bright eyes, chubby cheeks red with excitement. “We really can? Really?” Dean could tell that he was barely able to contain himself so he opened his arms right up and had what felt like eight limbs at least all wrap around him.

“Easy, tiger.” He laughed, happy about the ever more rare simple showings of affection between them. The older Sam got, the fewer those random hugs turned and sometimes it saddened Dean to think about losing this bodily connection between them. But like with all big emotional revelations, he just decided to shove it away and cling to the moment. No use crying over spilled milk.

They left the house around five-thirty, sun already setting in the west and streets brightly lit with torches to make it look more eerie. Those small towns really were something else. Dean would say the night was fairly successful, everyone ‘ohhh’-ed and ‘ahhh’-ed about Sam’s costume and the little boy did almost pass out in glee the first time some told him he looked just like the character in the movie.

They returned home late, around ten and Sam was dead on his feet, oddly affectionate and clingy like he only ever got when all his defenses (the ones no nine-year old should have) were torn down by sleepiness. Dean looked at the two heavy bags in their hands and thought that never in their lives did they have even seen so many sweets. Dean would have to hide most of them away, so that Sam wouldn’t fall into a sugar-induced coma. But first they emptied all their bags and looked at their haul. Sam’s eyes were big as saucers at the sight and Dean’s heart felt too big for his own chest.

And then his little brother turned around and threw himself in Dean’s arms again. “This was the greatest day ever, De. You’re the best big brother, I swear.” A wet kiss was planted smack on his lips. Dean blushed but he was oddly pleased. He knew they were almost too old for this kind of physical affection but no one had seen so it was okay. It was probably born out of the almost drunken tiredness that had grabbed hold of Sam, anyway. There was no harm in enjoying it as long as he could, and to hide it away like a clever squirrel would bury his nuts for colder times to come.

Back in the present he can hardly stand, staggering towards the kid with burning eyes. Dean manages to catch himself, barely and brings himself to drop some sweets into the kid’s bag as well. He wants nothing more than to close that damn door and drown the memories in liquid absolution but then the little boy goes and says in a high but earnest voice “Thank you, Mister.” with a little lisp, just like Sam, and the world crumbles around him.

Dean hardly forces out a small “You’re welcome, kiddo. Kick-ass costume.” past the lump in his throat. He closes the door before the kid becomes an innocent bystander to Dean’s breakdown. As soon as the lock clicks shut he turns around and lets his head thud against the wood behind him before he slides down to the cold floor with his head between his legs. His body is shaking with sobs so hard he can barely draw a breath.

Lisa rushes to him and goes down on her knees at his side, hands aimlessly fluttering around him. She’s not sure where to grab, to hold, knowing he’s made out of shards and she can easily cut herself wide open on his wounds. She’s asking him what has happened, and he is talking, he hears his voice desperately pleading like he’s strung on a rack. All she can understand between his heart wrenching sobs is “I can’t, I need, Sam, Sammy, sorry, so sorry, I, Sam, can’t” over and over again. She knows there is nothing she can do to help him and her heart breaks all over again for the broken man in front of her. Lisa had hoped, even prayed, that he would start to heal if only she and Ben just give him time and love and understanding. But he didn’t.

He is just as raw as when he turned up on her doorstep all those months ago. Maybe even worse, because the wounds have festered and are slowly eating him up, killing him from within. There is nothing she can do but watch the man she loves wither away from grief, mourning for a man she didn’t even know. And so she just sits beside him, rubbing his back and making soothing noises, secretly glad that Ben isn’t there to witness it. She feels guilty at the thought, but that doesn’t make it any less true. She is in over her head, she knows that, but she still won’t give up on Dean. The man who has saved her baby. The man who has probably saved hundreds, maybe thousands of lives. The hero no one knows, and no one cares about, except her.

She can’t help but hate Sam a little bit. She doesn’t know what happened between the day Dean had turned up on her doorstep to say goodbye, surely on his way to do something stupid and heroic, to the night he turned up again as an empty, broken shell. Dean had refused to say more than “He’s gone, Lis.” in a voice that sounded like broken glass, so she had never asked again. Lisa knows, it’s unfair and that you shouldn’t think badly about the dead, but Sam is gone. He left, and Dean became a shadow, a walking, talking ghost because of it, so she can’t help but hate Sam for it.

She can never be for Dean what Sam had been and the thought tastes bitter in her mouth.


End file.
